Affliction
by caramine
Summary: His eyes were so close, and so vast I thought I would fall right into them. But even then, I couldn’t read them. Not a bit. Grimmjow/Ulquiorra, Yaoi, Angst. Sequel to "Possession."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Bleach and all of its characters belong to Kubo Tite, the dickhead. Why is he killing my favorite characters. Why.

Also, a warning: **This is a sequel**. The first one is called "Possession" and is also by yours truly. While it's not necessary to read that one first, it's probably still a good idea. Or you can read this one first, and then you won't be nearly as disappointed with it! OH HO HO HO~ *ahem.* Well, anyways, on with the fic.

_Chapter 1_

When a hollow becomes an arrancar, there is a brief moment of blackness where he is neither one nor the other. It's a black spot in the memories; a break, a cavity in the stream of consciousness. It's only for a moment, less than a millisecond, but to the hollow it feels endless. A fleeting state, when he is not what he was, but is not what he will be, either.

The first thing I saw when I looked up, after that time of nothing, was Aizen's face, the sleazy bastard. I knew already what he was – a controlling, manipulative jackass, bent on his own plans. He wasn't the kind of guy I especially wanted to answer to at the end of the day, but he promised power, something I couldn't pass up. He could make me stronger, and in my mind that made the servitude worth it.

Next to him stood that slime ball, Ichimaru, and an arrancar. An arrancar with black hair and green eyes, and tear tracks. Two parallel lines that ran down his cheeks. But he wasn't special to me. At least, not yet.

I learned later that he was called Ulquiorra. The cuatro espada, Ulquiorra Schiffer. He was above me in rank, and therefore supposedly stronger. But that was where my interest in him fell short. Other than that, he was regular. Just like everyone else: kind of annoying, but easy to deal with, and easy to annoy in return.

It wasn't until he confronted me – until he not only declined my challenge, but made it clear that he was doing me a favor by refusing to fight with me – that I began to see him for what he really was. He was interesting; cold and a bit of a tight-ass, but it seemed to me that he was hiding another side. A side with more emotions. A side with feelings. I started thinking about him, without even realizing it.

By the time I finally got to fuck him, I was crazy over him.

Not that Ulquiorra necessarily needed to know that. I was infatuated with him, sure, and I may have let slip once or twice about my obsession for him, but he didn't know quite the extent of it. My better judgment kept me from spilling everything to him; after all, what if he one day turned on me, and everything I'd told him could be used as ammunition against me? And I certainly didn't know all there was to him. If he had his secrets, I could have some of my own.

It was usually me going to his room at night, but once in a while Ulquiorra would come to find me. I needed him, but it seemed he wanted me as well. It looked to be one of those nights, that night.

The bastard didn't even bother to knock anymore; he just let himself into my apartment without any kind of warning. His movements were quiet and nonintrusive – he'd scared me plenty of times by popping up behind me unannounced. I was on my way out of my bedroom, heading to my front door to go find him, when I nearly bowled into him.

"Fuck, Ulquiorra!" I cried, rocking to a halt. The corner of his mouth twitched – it was as close to a smile as I ever saw on his otherwise deadpan features.

"Good evening to you, too," he said mildly, then reached up to pull me down to his lips.

Ulquiorra was a good kisser; there was no way to deny it. He was much better than he gave himself credit for, if his half-admitted lament at his inexperience was anything to go by. I enjoyed being the one who kissed him, of course; it was good to be in control of it sometimes, to take charge of him, force him to submit to me. But when he initiated it, when _he _kissed _me_, it was like nothing I'd ever dreamed of before I'd met him. There was something so strange – the way he was in control and yet just on the edge of losing it – so alien about the way his mouth opened and closed with mine, the way his tongue expertly explored my teeth, working in and around them.

We stepped carefully back through my doorway, him pressing me back towards the wall, me pulling him onwards. It wasn't until he pushed me down onto my own bed that I realized the compromising position he had forced me into.

"Bastard," I spat at him as his kisses moved away from my mouth and down my neck.

"Hmm," Ulquiorra murmured in reply, his mouth too occupied to bother with things like proper speech. The soft touches of his lips, the wetness of his tongue trailed down my chest, tracing the scar there. He seemed fixated on that scar, for some reason. Always, he came back to it. But as he got too close to my hollow hole, I laced my fingers through his hair, pulling him away.

"Not there," I reminded him. He moved away willingly, familiar, by now, with the aversion I had to any kind of contact with that hole. He raised his head, and I sat up to meet him halfway. Our lips met again, and I took advantage of this small distraction to turn him around, forcing _him_ down on his back. Quickly I slung my leg over him, straddling his waist and effectively pinning him to the bed.

"Thought you had me that time, didn't you?" I sneered at him.

"Not at all," he replied coolly.

I grunted contemptuously at him and reached down to unzip his jacket. His bare skin was cool to my touch, and perfectly smooth. I moved my hands slowly back up his chest, tracing the lines of his body as I went, outlining the jet black four that contrasted so sharply with his pale skin, then made my way slowly to that hole at the base of his neck. His aversion to contact with his hollow hole wasn't nearly as strong as mine was. He didn't seem to enjoy it, exactly, but he had yet to deny me entry there, and I couldn't stop myself from returning to it. I slid my fingers carefully over the rim, fingering the raw flesh gently. His whole body stiffened beneath me, his back arching slightly, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His fingers clutched desperately at the cotton sheets beneath him, his eyes squeezed shut. I slid my hand in a slow circle around the edges, taking delight in his reaction.

He groaned as I made my way around, and one of his grey hands reached up to clamp onto my own wrist. "Enough," he hissed. "Grimmjow, enough."

That was more than I needed to retreat; he could get me to do anything he wanted, just by saying my name. I loved to hear him say my name. I could listen to him say it over and over, forever, and never get tired of it. The way he said my name wasn't exactly different from the way anyone else said it, but he was the only one who had ever sent shivers down my spine just by speaking it. He made me feel attached to it, as though I wasn't really Grimmjow until he reminded me I was. As if I wasn't anyone until he told me I was.

I leaned down to kiss him again, wrapping my hand around the back of his head protectively. My knuckles knocked against the bone that covered the other half. It was a pain, that stupid broken mask of his. It was always in my way, making things difficult, or painful. But I couldn't change it, and even if I could have, I wouldn't. I wouldn't change anything about him that he didn't think was broken.

I bore down on him hungrily, both of us rushing to remove the other's clothing. Sex with him was always amazing – never had I been left unsatisfied by him. Even that first time, when he'd known nothing about it other than what instinct drove him to, was better than any I'd ever had before.

He was still a child in many ways; sex was one of them. He'd been a virgin before I met him, never even thought about sex. Now that he'd discovered it, he wanted to know everything there was to know, and experience it all. He was ravenous. Not that I was complaining. I was happy to teach him anything he wanted to know. And we'd done just about everything two people could do; with one exception – _he_ had never fucked _me_. Usually he knew what he wanted from me and wasn't afraid to ask for it (and I usually gave it to him), but that was the one thing he had never requested of me. I had even once offered it, and he had refused me point blank. I sure as hell didn't understand why, but if he was good with being bottom all the time, that was fine with me. And if he just wasn't ready to top – well, I didn't want to push him into something he wasn't ready for. I had a hunch that there was another reason, though, one that he was hiding from me.

But that wasn't his only childlike quality; he was greedy and jealous, like a little kid who'd never been taught how to share. He monopolized me, even as he tried not to show it. He never let anyone else touch me if he could help it. And when he couldn't – when I got into a fight or someone happened to lay their hand on my shoulder – it irritated him. I could tell. He thought I didn't notice – I could see that, too. And he was proud. Too proud to admit to any of it. But that was about all I could see. I wanted to see more; sometimes I imagined there was something else there, a murderous black rage hidden just beneath the surface. There were some things he couldn't hide from me; I watched him too closely, and I knew him too well. Or at least, I liked to think I did. But most of the time it was like he was completely empty.

For us, sex almost always ended in sleep. Sometimes we talked before one of us drifted off, sometimes not. I liked talking to him. He wasn't nice or funny or sympathetic or anything. In fact, he was generally as cold and calculating as he had ever been. He often made me angry or mocked me mercilessly but still I enjoyed our conversations. He was smart; his comments were insightful, even if they were insulting. Sometimes, I just liked to listen to his voice.

When I woke in the morning, Ulquiorra was still there, as he always was. It was an unspoken rule between us – you didn't just disappear without warning unless you had a damn good reason. I'd woken before him. That was good. It meant I got to watch him sleep, something I didn't get the opportunity to do nearly often enough.

He was an interesting sleeper; usually he lay completely still, hardly even breathing, but every once in a while, he would suddenly reach out to touch me – a part of his dream, maybe – or I'd wake to find he'd wrapped his arm around my chest while I slept. Today his hand lay just next to my face, obscuring my view until I moved. I slid my hand carefully into his half-curled palm, clutching his hand gently. His fingers twitched slightly around mine, and I smiled in amusement.

It was nice to watch him sleep; he was much more peaceful than when he was awake. His eyes closed lightly, his eyebrows relaxed, his frown absent for once. He looked so much softer, more delicate. I knew, though, that he was far from breakable. He could easily kill me, almost without a thought.

Suddenly he turned in his sleep, moaning slightly. I withdrew my hand, not wanting him to know I'd been holding it. I wasn't sure why I hid that from him – we'd done much more in-depth things than holding hands – but probably it was because it was such an intimate thing, a symbol of the kind of companionship we didn't quite have.

Ulquiorra was instantly aware when he woke, a trait that probably came from being always on guard, ready to defend as we all were. He looked at me in silence for a moment, and I wondered for the millionth time what he was thinking.

"You were watching me," he said matter-of-factly.

"I was," I admitted. "Got a problem?"

He blinked heavily once, which was about as much of a response as I could ever hope to get from him. He seemed to notice then that his hand had snuck across to me while he slept, and he curled his fingers into a loose fist, pulling it back to his side.

"You watch me quite a bit, Grimmjow," he observed.

"Yeah, well…" I muttered, momentarily thrown off when he said my name. My stomach flipped upside down, and my insides all crawled with that brief flash of joy. I recovered quickly, and grinned widely at him. "You're cute when you sleep."

Ulquiorra had once told me that he used to hate me, but that he couldn't anymore. It was when I made comments like that one that I wondered if maybe he did still secretly hate me, if the icy looks he stabbed me with were anything to go by.

"You watch me, too," I reminded him teasingly, pushing myself up on my elbows so that I was above him.

"That is because you talk in your sleep," he explained, without missing a beat. "It amuses me."

"The hell I do!" I spat at him.

"You say some rather interesting things," he continued, as though I'd said nothing.

"Like what?" I demanded skeptically.

"You call my name, sometimes," he answered. "And you moan a lot."

"Is that all? Hell, I do that shit when I'm awake," I said to cover my embarrassment.

"You ask questions, also."

My stomach turned queasy as I imagined the kinds of questions my subconscious mind would ask him. "Such as?" I asked hesitantly.

"Mostly trivial things. Laughable, really. The time; you ask about that quite often. Once in a while you ask me what my favorite color is. Ah, and you asked me if Kurosaki was dead yet, the other day."

"Is that it?" I questioned him cautiously. I had a feeling that there was more.

"Well, you, ah…" he stammered.

Ulquiorra never stammered. It was something bad.

"_What did I say?_" I demanded darkly.

"You…" He swallowed quietly once before he continued. "You asked me if I would marry you, once."

I stared at him wide-eyed, both panicked and terrified. "I didn't," I denied.

"You did."

"You're lying."

"I'm telling the truth," he insisted.

I groaned loudly and flopped back onto my pillow, mortified. I tried to cover my burning face with my hands, but his grey ones pulled mine firmly away.

"You're blushing," he said, and I saw the corner of his mouth twitch in his tiny smile as he pushed himself up to lean over me.

"I am not," I growled, sounding like a whiny little kid.

"You most certainly are," he disagreed, the tips of his slender fingers brushing lightly against my exposed cheek. His touch was like ice on my skin.

"Do you _want_ me to marry you, Grimmjow?" he asked acerbically as his palm now caressed the side of my crimson face.

"No," I answered quickly – too quickly.

"Hm," he said. "I wonder about that."

Before I could contradict him, however, he was kissing me again, and I was powerless to stop him. If he thought that he could make me forget things just by kissing me, though, he was very wrong. I'd let it go for now, sure, but I would think on it later, without a doubt. And he would too, I guessed.

His hand roamed my chest again as he kissed me. The first time his hands had made contact with my body like this, I'd been surprised at how gentle his touch was. Even now, it caught me off guard when his fingers brushed over my skin the way they did; light and feathery, and so very cold, his fingertips calloused and rough. He moved slowly, tracing every line made by the convergence of my muscles, drawing an icy outline around the edges of my scar. He sent shivers up and down my spine, all throughout my limbs.

He sat back slowly, then watched as I rose to a sitting position as well.

"I should be going," he said plainly. "Everyone will be rising soon, otherwise."

"Yeah," I agreed grudgingly.

He reached out to hold my face again, and I touched his cheek in return. "It isn't so long, Grimmjow," he pointed out, his voice audibly softened.

"I know," I muttered, and let my hand fall away.

"It's hard for you, isn't it?" he whispered. I closed my eyes to the sight of him, leaning forward until I was resting my head on his shoulder. He showed the most emotion when he whispered, even if it still wasn't much. But it was enough. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach from wanting him, enough to make my hands tremble and my skin buzz with electricity.

"It's hard for me, too," he continued. His voice was so soft, so quiet. I wanted to hear more of that voice. I wanted to hear that voice tell me all his secrets, to hear it spill his soul to me. "Why am I so desperate for you?" he whispered. He reached around me, encircling me in his cold, cold arms, his hands clasped behind my back. "How can I see you every day, and still need more of you?"

"I want you, Ulquiorra," I whispered to him.

"Grimmjow," he murmured.

Want. That was the closest we could come to naming what it was we felt for each other. It more than just simple 'want,' though. For me, it was something far beyond want – beyond desire, and lust, and craving. I needed him. I needed to feel him, to see him and hear him and touch him. I would die without him.

"Grimmjow," he mumbled again. "I need to leave." His hands unlatched behind my back, retreating from around me. Gently, he pushed me away, forcing me to sit upright again.

"Alright," I sighed resignedly.

He rose slowly from the bed, gathering his clothes from their various places around the room and dressing leisurely. I sat watching him in silence for a moment before reluctantly following his example. Parting wasn't always this difficult. More often than not it was even worse.

I followed him down the hallway to my front door, hanging back as he made to leave, resigning myself to long hours with only my thoughts of him for company. As his hand reached for the handle, though, I stopped him. "Ulquiorra," I said hastily.

He paused, waiting for me to continue.

"When I said that I didn't want you to marry me," I said hurriedly, the words escaping my mouth before I could hold them back. What was I saying? "I meant it. I would never ask you to marry me."

He froze. Almost imperceptibly, but I – so accustomed to the movements of his body – could see the way his joints stiffened, the way his muscles tightened across his back. A millennium passed, a nauseating feeling of guilt rising in my stomach, choking my words, my breath. I had said something very wrong. It had felt wrong as it left my mouth; it had burnt my tongue to say it. Why hadn't I stopped myself?

Finally, he moved again. Only his head, rotating a fraction of a degree on his frozen neck, his eyes looking at me sidelong.

"I didn't ever think you would," he said coldly, his voice as dead as I had ever heard it. I wanted to grab him right then, to hold him close to me, hold onto him forever. I wanted to tell him that I was wrong – I didn't know what I was saying, I'd lied, it wasn't the truth. But it was the truth, and I knew it. I knew it deep in my gut, and from that knowledge stretched a shame that I knew was more than deserved.

Instead, I watched as he left without another word, leaving an icy trail of guilt in his wake.

Why had I said that? It was unnecessary. He'd been joking when he'd said it earlier – hadn't he? _Then why had I said that?_ I'd offended him in some way, I was sure of it. I hadn't meant to. I hadn't meant to say anything at all. I would have never hurt him on purpose. I hated to see him in pain – his distress cut me far deeper than my own. I wanted to know his pain and suffer it with him; I wanted to lift that weight from his shoulders as much as I could.

But no – I hadn't healed any of his hurt. I'd caused him more. I'd injured him with my own words. I infuriated myself. How could I be so stupid? How could I say something like that, something that would make him freeze the way he did? How could I have watched him, listened to him speak in that lifeless tone, and not reached out to him? I was worthless. I didn't deserve to want him. I was a fucking moron.

But the question that bothered me most was _why_ didn't I want to marry him? Obviously, marriage wasn't something we should be concerned with. We were still hiding our relationship from everyone outside; I was still half in denial myself. And besides, we were both men, and I sure as hell wasn't about to don a wedding dress. When I thought about it, though, it was hard to pinpoint what exactly made me reject the thought of being married to him. We got on well enough, didn't we? And he was a great fucker – what was not to like?

Still, it felt like there was a voice telling me no. _You won't do that_, it said. _You know you can't_. And then it was his voice speaking to me. _I didn't ever think you would_. I shrank away from the coldness of his words, the emotionless way he said them. I didn't want to hear him like that; I wanted to hear him when he whispered, when his voice was so soft that I had to strain my ears to hear, when he was telling me how much he wanted me. I wanted to hear him say my name, to hear him tell me who I was.

The day passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. I couldn't see him during the day. There was no meeting I might 'accidentally' run into him at – my duties didn't take me anywhere close to him. Still, I was almost thankful for that. I couldn't have said a word to him even if I had seen him, unless it was to insult him in some way. It killed me that I still had to pretend to hate him. I didn't hate him. I had never hated him, exactly. Not the way he had hated me.

There had once been a time when he had wanted to kill me, he hated me so much. I'd seen some of it, the way his fists clenched when he passed me, the way his frown deepened when I spoke. For him, even those small expressions of anger were extreme; before he'd hated me, I'd never seen him react to anything at all.

Now, I saw him react in different ways: the way he hissed when I touched his hollow hole; the way he moaned during sex; the way he murmured my name when he was exhausted and content.

The way he froze when I wounded him.

Things would be so much easier for him, I knew, if he still hated me. I wouldn't be able to hurt him the way I had. But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he hated me; I'd have nothing. I couldn't let him hate me, even if he would be happier for it. I was selfish that way, and I didn't care. I needed him, and I didn't care whether he knew it or not, so long as he was with me.

Night was slow to arrive. It was always night in Hueco Mundo, I argued to myself. I made any excuse I could to see him. Why couldn't we see each other all the time? The hours inched past. I wanted to see him. I wanted to touch him, to feel his cold, cold skin. I wanted to apologize. I had to apologize – it was all I knew how to do, at this point. There was nothing else I _could_ do.

When I'd first begun to notice him, I'd been ashamed by the way I obsessed over him. I shouldn't have had to depend on someone else for my own contentment, I told myself. I didn't need anybody. Now, there was no room for me to deny it. I _did_ need him. I needed him desperately. If I lost him, if he disappeared because of some stupid, senseless thing I'd said, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I'd have to die, somehow. Would he be kind enough to kill me? That would be the best way. To die by his hand would be the only way to go.

I was out the door the second the lights flickered off. The only light in the hallway was the soft white of the guide lights by my feet. Nobody would be out tonight – they never were. I knew the steps to his door by heart; I was there in a matter of moments. My heart pounded inside my chest. I needed to tell him. I needed to tell him everything, to tell him how sorry I was, how I couldn't live without him. Never mind self-preservation; what use was I without him, anyways?

I rapped softly on his door; it opened almost before I'd dropped my hand. Quickly, I stepped inside and closed it behind me. My hands trembled nervously.

"Grimmjow," he said in a brief greeting, and then before I knew it, he was kissing me. His kiss, which I'd been so afraid I'd never feel again. There was something new about it this time, though, like he was anxious for something.

"Ulquiorra," I murmured, pulling away slightly. I tried to say more, but his mouth caught mine again and silenced me once more. He was moving quickly, his hands already wrapped around my waist.

"_Ulquiorra_," I hissed insistently when I got the chance. I grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly so that he would look at me. "Listen," I persisted, "I have to talk –"

"Later," he interrupted. His hands travelled downward, tucking themselves into the waist of my hakama. "I know what you want to say," he continued when I began to protest. "And I'm telling you, I will listen to everything you want to tell me. Later."

Then before I could say a word, my mouthed was trapped again by his. But later was okay. He'd promised to listen to me, so it could wait. It could all wait. His hands were cold and rough, like sandpaper, against my skin. His touch was like a dream, one I thought I'd never have again. But I hadn't lost him. Not yet.

We ended up in his bed again, the way we always did. It wasn't that either of us was addicted to sex, or anything. There were some nights when we didn't do it; they were few and far between. It was just that it felt so _good_. It was somehow right. The way he moaned and sighed, the way his hips bucked beneath me, the friction and the heat of it all. It was the best way we had to express ourselves, since our words so often failed us.

But the aftermath, that, too, was something special. It was when we really got to talk to each other, the only time we had to really get to know one another. And tonight it was especially important that I talk to him.

"Is it later now?" I asked breathily as we both collapsed, exhausted, onto his bed.

"It will be," he sighed, "in just a moment." His hand reached out slowly to brush gently against the side of my face, running over my mask, as well. His eyes moved over every inch of my features before finally settling on my eyes.

"Now it is," he said.

I shifted nervously, steeling myself in preparation for what I knew I had to say. "About… what I said this morning," I began hesitantly. His face remained impassive as ever, but I could fool myself into thinking I saw some sort of tension building behind his eyes. "I… I'm sorry," I said slowly.

"Why?" Ulquiorra asked quietly. "What do you have to apologize for – it's the truth, isn't it?"

"But-" I started, then hesitated.

"What is it, Grimmjow?" he demanded. His use of my name threw me, the same way it always did.

"It still hurt you," I whispered. The guilt that still boiled in my gut choked my words.

"It did," he admitted. "But I think I know now why you said it."

"Why, then?" I asked him. "Tell me, 'cause I have no fucking clue."

"Consider," he said plainly. "Marriage is human. Humans feel a need to be bound by it. You and I – we aren't human. We don't need any official ceremonies or documents or laws to bind us together."

"That's why?"

"I can't begin to say that's it, for certain. That is merely what I'd like to think."

"Still," I murmured. "I wish I hadn't said it."

"But you did say it."

A moment passed in silence, an icy tension straining at both of us. His quiet perfection was strangling me; why was he so faultless, and I, so flawed? He had hurt me, yes, but that had all been because of my own inadequacy. The blame always belonged to me.

And then there was that ever-present electricity, flowing between us. It was tiring to constantly want him, to be always consumed by thoughts of him. It was hard, when I passed him in the halls or saw him at meetings, not to take him the moment I saw him, to ignore him and walk right on past. Soon, I wouldn't be able to help myself.

"This is getting dangerous, Ulquiorra," I said softly.

"What is?" he asked, the dull glaze of sleepiness creeping into his voice. He always went from wide awake to asleep in practically the blink of an eye.

"You and me. This. Us. We can't keep this up forever."

"I know, Grimmjow," he replied soberly.

Another moment of quiet passed over, and his eyes closed softly, his breathing falling into the regular rise and fall of sleep.

"Ulquiorra," I whispered. He opened his eyes to slits. "Even if I don't want to marry you, I still want to be with you," I promised him boldly.

"I know," he murmured, and then his eyes floated closed again, and I knew that sleep had overcome him.

I rose the next morning and left him as I usually did; neither of us mentioned the conversation we'd had the night before, though both of us were thinking of it. Eventually, though – after I'd been with and parted with him countless times again – we both seemed to forget about the incident altogether. Our days passed in a sort of routine, one of fear and secrecy. But there was something about keeping everything so hidden that was also thrilling, although we both knew what the consequences would be if we were discovered.

It was infuriating, as well. I couldn't be with him the way I wanted to be because we feared discovery. I couldn't react in anger, the way I wanted to, when someone else laid a hand upon his body. I couldn't tell the world that he belonged to me, or to stay the fuck away from him if they knew what was good for them. But I wasn't alone in that sense, at least. He, also, had to keep our secret.

And then there were those things I couldn't forget if I tried: the words I'd said to him without thinking, words that had hurt him, and my feeble attempt at an excuse. I wasn't even entirely sure he'd heard me, since he'd been half asleep as the time, or if he remembered at all. I remembered. I'd told him I wanted to be with him, and it was true. It was the truth as I'd never told it before. I wanted to be _with_ him. I wanted to live every waking moment with him by my side, sleep only with his body next to mine. How was that so different from marriage, I wondered? But what he'd said had been true, too – marriage was so completely human that when I thought about it now it seemed incredibly ridiculous. If I'd been in the same situation again, I'd have said the exact same thing.

* * *

Author's comments: This first chapter… sucks. There's no other way to put it. It's stupid. It's pitiful. It's moronic. It's why-the-hell-did-I-write-it-ful. And I've got to warn you – the rest of the fic really isn't that much better. But it is a little bit, so there's hope?

Or not.

There's only going to be four chapters this time, rather than five (I think? If I counted correctly.) but don't let that deceive you – this one is actually longer than Possession. By more than two thousand words, in fact. I am just that pro.

So, if you're not rolling your eyes or frantically clicking your back button, please continue to keep reading! I'll post a new chapter every Wednesday. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Bleach. If I did, things would be a little bit... different.

Author's Note: It's chapter two and the emergence of PLOT! And Szayel's cameo. He really wanted one, guys. He confronted me in a dream and was like, "LAURA. WHY AM I NOT IN YOUR FIC." And I was like, "Chill, Szayel, seriously. Your hair's gonna frizz." (Lies, all of it lies.) This chapter has a super-duper-special extra warning, too!

**Warning: Really Terribly Written Sex ahead.**

Enjoy!

_Chapter 2_

The days dragged and the nights flew in an aggravating pattern, day after day after day. Every minute without Ulquiorra was a minute wasted. Every moment I spent pretending to hate him was a century of torture. Every second I touched him was fleeting, disappearing far too quickly. I felt as though I needed to keep him close to me while I still could, as though he was going to be ripped away from me when I needed him most. I was desperately afraid of losing him. I wouldn't survive losing him.

When Szayel approached me, I was unprepared. He was wearing a smirk, but it was nothing special. There was nothing overtly strange or threatening about him. In fact, I'd thought he would walk right past me. I was shocked when he held up his hand, motioning for me to stop.

His smirk grew as he took in my confused expression. "Aizen-sama knows," he said evenly. The threat of his words took a moment to sink in before anxiety flooded my being.

"Knows what?" I demanded, feigning ignorance.

"Don't play coy with me, Grimmjow," he sneered. "We all know."

"Why don't you tell me what you're talking about, Szayel?" I growled impatiently, hoping that I could hide my unease enough to fool him.

"You and Ulquiorra, of course," he said as though it was common knowledge. Perhaps it was. His mocking smile was infuriatingly persistent and only tried my nerves further. He took one confident step forward; he knew he had the upper hand here, and he was eager to take advantage of it. I was his superior any other day, but right now he had me cornered.

"Yeah?" I spat viciously. "What's your point?" My fists clenched compulsively at my sides, and I fought the urge to attack him on the spot. I didn't want Aizen to be any angrier with me than he already was – and I was sure he was furious.

Szayel's smirk relaxed, but he still looked amused by my disconcerted reaction. "I'd watch out if I were you, Grimmjow," he warned lightly. "For your little lover-boy, too. Wouldn't want him to get hurt, would you? After all, he's _so_ important to you," he scoffed.

I couldn't stop myself from lashing out at him; he barely dodged my tightly clenched fist, and I sent it hurling into the wall instead. "Shut up," I snarled at him.

"Did I hit a nerve there?" he teased. I jerked my fist back, readying to strike at him again.

"Hey now," he said, watching me prepare to attack him, seemingly without a care. "I was trying to warn you. Don't shoot the messenger, right?"

I dropped my fist slowly, my fingers uncurling reluctantly. "Get out of my sight," I spat at him.

He shrugged and turned unhurriedly away from me, retreating leisurely. I glared angrily as he walked, my fists clenching and unclenching spastically at my sides until my fingernails drew blood from my palms. I was torn as to how to deal with this "warning" of his; my instincts all cried out to attack Szayel, to fight him right then and there and take a little revenge, but my better judgment held me back. Since when had I had better judgment, I wondered? The answer was immediately obvious: since Ulquiorra's life had been more important than mine. And somehow that made me even angrier.

I slammed my fist against the wall again, regretting that I had let the chance to really fight someone get away. Szayel was long gone by now. So my preferred course of action had escaped me – _now_ what was I going to do? I walked as I considered the situation we'd landed ourselves in.

So, Aizen knew. It wasn't a huge shock. Aizen had eyes everywhere. It had always been a matter of time. The biggest shock was how _devastated_ I was. I wouldn't be able to see him anymore. I wouldn't be able to touch him, or kiss him, or fuck him. I'd be left with nothing but dull, unsatisfactory memories.

_But that might not be the worst of it_, something whispered in the back of my mind. I quickly shook that thought away. Aizen wouldn't hurt his precious cuatro espada, would he? After that I didn't have room to think about our predicament; all my thoughts were focused on pushing away the gruesome scenes playing on the edge of my consciousness. I wouldn't see them. I wouldn't.

I shouldn't have been surprised when I found that my feet had carried me unconsciously to his door. I shouldn't have been angry when my hand rose of its own accord and knocked. And I definitely shouldn't have felt my stomach twist into a knot when he opened the door the way he always did.

"Grimmjow," he said, and I could have sworn that his voice lifted just a tiny bit in surprise. "You're a bit early, don't you think?" Still, he stepped aside to let me in, and closed the door behind me.

I thought about telling him. I really did. I thought about telling him about the whole conversation with Szayel, and how I'd wanted to kill the bastard, and how I wasn't going to let Aizen so much as _breathe_ on him, because I wouldn't stand to watch him get hurt.

But I didn't tell him.

I kissed him instead. I kissed him harder than I'd ever kissed him before, and deeper and longer. If we had to stop – if this had to be the last night we could be together – then I was sure as hell going to make this the best time we'd ever had, and I wanted him to be thinking about _me_, not about Aizen or Szayel or anything else.

He pulled back after a few minutes, gasping shallowly for air. "Grimmjow…" he said with a small, questioning look.

"We can talk later," I growled, and kissed him again before he could answer. He didn't protest, instead throwing himself into our kiss with more force than before.

Before long I tasted something on his lips that was not usually there, a warm metallic flavor that I would recognize anywhere. Blood.

I pulled back to investigate. Bright red lines, short, shallow cuts, were dripping blood onto his pale cheek. "You're bleeding…" I murmured, touching the shallow scratches with my fingertips.

He sighed softly and lifted his own hand, running it swiftly along my broken hollow mask. The contact made a thumping noise in my inner ear. He showed me his fingers, a thin sheen of red coloring his grey fingertips. "I bled on your mask," he said.

I felt my stomach twist into an even tighter knot as I realized it was my mask that had cut him. "I…" I stammered, at a loss for words. "I'm sorry." I swallowed the guilty lump that was growing in my throat, sending it down to join the knot of guilt in my abdomen.

The corner of his mouth lifted in his small, cold smile. "This is nothing," he said. Before I could protest or apologize further, he was kissing me again and leading me towards his room.

I hardly even realized that we'd undressed until we were naked on his bed, his body underneath mine. I kissed him feverishly, my hands traveling all over his body. I had to remind myself to slow down. If I wasn't careful I'd hurt him again, and the blood I could still taste on his lips was more of his blood than I'd ever wanted to see.

I paused for a moment, pulling away from him slowly to examine his features. I thought for a moment that I could see some of the desperate urgency I felt reflected in his face, but it disappeared before I could really believe I'd seen it. His expression was always the same – no emotion at all, not even when I was about to fuck him. Sometimes I resented him for it; why couldn't he show me what he was thinking? Was he really so heartless that he never felt _anything_? But other times, like tonight, I was glad that he wasn't an open book, like me. I didn't want to _see_ what he was feeling – just an observer from the outside. I wanted to _feel_ it. I wanted him to share his every thought with me, every tiny flicker of his consciousness, so that I could understand him better. Because as of right then, I was fully aware that I knew nothing at all about him.

He watched me with impassive eyes, panting shallowly, pinned on his back as I straddled him. His hand snuck up to my chest, then slid under my arm to wrap around my back. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded.

I forced myself to sneer at him halfheartedly. "Impatient, Ulquiorra?" I teased him, though I was sure he could not possibly be more impatient than I was for what we both knew was coming.

"Yes," he agreed. "I've been waiting for you for longer than you know, Grimmjow," he murmured breathlessly.

I gave one humorless laugh, the knot in my stomach growing even larger at the sound of my name on his lips. "Well, I'm here now," I said in reply, and leaned in to kiss him again.

I didn't need to take it slow at all, I realized as he answered my kiss forcefully. He needed this as much as I did – either that or he was an excellent actor.

But soon it didn't matter whether he needed it or wanted it or anything, because I was fucking him then, and I wasn't going to stop. It was what sex was always intended to be – he and I; moving together in an endlessly repeating pattern that never got boring, never turned bitter or cold; in and out; the friction of our bodies against each other; the joyous sensation of being _inside_ him; believing myself to be a part of him, an extension of his body. The completion of his soul.

The only sounds were those of us – my sharp breaths, the creak of bed springs, his muffled noises. He always held back his little sounds – his wonderful deep-throated moans, the grunts and whispers I loved to hear – smothered them, almost, as if he were hiding them from me. As if he were embarrassed to get as much pleasure out of being fucked as he did.

But tonight I wasn't going to let him hold back. Tonight I was going to make him cry out the way his body wanted him to. Tonight I was going to make him call my name so that every soul of Hueco Mundo could hear just how much he liked having me inside him.

"Come on, Ulquiorra," I hissed as I thrust into him again. Every muscle in his body tensed, his back arching beneath me. I gasped sharply, fighting the urge to let it all go. I leaned forward, whispered in his ear. "Let me _hear_ you."

"Grimmjow," he groaned through clenched teeth as I retreated, readying to dive in again.

"Louder," I demanded as my hips rocked against his, his body straining beneath mine again.

"No," he refused, his fists grabbing at the sheets. His usually calm features were twisted in mingled pain and ecstasy – I couldn't separate the two in my mind, any more.

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"_No_," he repeated, louder and with more force as I pressed into him again. And then, as if he couldn't help it, he cried out again. "Grimmjow," he moaned.

"Grimmjow," he said, again and again.

"Grimmjow." Each time, different. Sometimes loud, sometimes soft, always soliciting a shiver down my spine.

"Grimmjow." Each time I moved inside him; as it ended in sweet release; even as I collapsed on top of him, too exhausted, too comfortable to move away.

"Grimmjow," he murmured. I let my head lie against his bare chest as my breathing slowly calmed, my hands and arms resting on either side of his body.

This was something different. We didn't ever just lie like this – with the exception of sex, our physical contact was usually limited to fingertips on faces, palms against cheeks. Small. Here, with my ear against his heart, here was new and unusual and strange and _different_. My eyes saw a desert, an ocean, so close to his body; a vast plain of grayish skin. Looking up I could see his hollow hole, a black chasm in the desert, a puddle of oil staining the land. His skin felt cool against my flushed cheek. He had a very faint smell – almost like lake water, something that smelled clean, but at the same time you knew it was scummy and dirty.

"Grimmjow," he whispered again, a thrill of pleasure briefly flooding my senses. I listened to his labored breathing as it slowed, the sound rhythmic and soothing. And yet there was something off about it. Something missing, I realized.

"Ulquiorra," I said suddenly, pushing myself up to lean over him. A spark of panic shot through my veins. "You don't have a heartbeat."

"What?" he asked, momentarily thrown. If I hadn't been so shaken and frightened I would have congratulated myself; it took more than a lot to shock him. "I have a heartbeat, Grimmjow," he said, still slightly out of breath, his eyes wider than usual.

"I can't hear it," I insisted. I pressed two fingers into his neck, feeling for the pulse I knew should be there, but couldn't find. "I can't feel it either. What the fuck, Ulquiorra!"

"Listen closer," he suggested, one of his hands reaching up around my own neck, pulling my head again to his chest, and I pressed my ear against heart again, desperate to hear it. I heard one heartbeat, but I could feel that in my inner ear, so I knew it was my own. I could hear him breathing. I could hear me breathing. But that was all.

"I…" I swallowed the lump growing in my throat again. "I can't…"

"Perhaps it really is dead, then," he murmured.

I raised my head to look him in the eye, wondering what he meant. "Ulquiorra…" I muttered.

His eyes constricted slightly. "Is it repulsive, Grimmjow?" he asked bitterly. "My dead heart?"

"No," I answered quickly. "It isn't dead. You aren't dead."

"Really?" he asked. "I'm a hollow, aren't I? Aren't we all dead?" He spat the last word contemptuously.

"I don't think of it that way," I told him.

"Nor do I," he replied.

I paused a moment, watching him carefully, my fingers still pressed against his throat. I marveled a bit at the way he'd opened up to me over time. Most arrancar wouldn't ever expose their neck, such a vulnerable target, so openly the way he did.

"God, Ulquiorra," I breathed, my head falling until my forehead rested against the sharp edge of his mask. In the way, again.

"What?" he asked, just humoring me, I could tell.

"You're _fucked up_. Do you know that?"

The corner of his mouth twitched in another shadow of a smile. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose," he agreed.

"Ulquiorra, I…" I began, then hesitated. I lifted my head a bit, moving so that my lips hovered only centimeters above his. My hand wandered up to touch his cheek, tracing the tear track there almost subconsciously.

"Yes, Grimmjow?" he encouraged quietly, and even his breath felt cool on my skin. His eyes were so close, and so vast I thought I would fall right into them. But even then, I couldn't read them. Not a bit.

"I…" I stumbled again, and then screwed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth as a flood of grief hit me – hit me like a running into a wall – big and solid and so very _there_ that I couldn't possibly ignore it. I was going to lose him. If I told him what I knew, I was going to lose him for certain, and I wouldn't live through that. But if I didn't tell him, that was as good as lying, and I couldn't deceive him. He'd never lied to me, as far as I knew – though I doubted I'd know it if he had – and I had never lied to him in return. I didn't want to start now, when we were so close to losing each other. But I'd already let it go too far. I had to end it.

"Grimmjow…" he murmured, the tiniest flicker of disbelief in his voice. "Are you crying?"

"I don't know," I gasped, choking on air. "Maybe." Another struggle for breath. "No."

"Just tell me," he sighed.

I let one desperate, dry sob escape my throat, traitorous and terrible. "Give me a moment," I requested, sitting up and away from him. I slung my legs over the side of the bed, supporting my head in my hands. I was messing this up. Any second now I was going to lose him, and I was wasting what precious time we had left.

"Grimmjow," I heard him whisper. I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, trying to ignore the ache his voice caused. I didn't _want_ to need him so desperately. I just did.

I thought back to the first time I ever heard him say my name: "Stand up, Grimmjow," he'd said. "You're not a coward. Quit acting like one."

But I was a coward, and I hadn't even seen it until I'd heard him say I wasn't. I'd been frightened of being without him, so I went searching for him, rather than braving loneliness. I was terrified of losing him, so I hid from retribution. Even now, when separating myself from him would be the wisest thing to do, the one thing that would keep him far more safe than I could, I was too afraid to leave. A coward was exactly what I was.

It had been selfish of me to not break away from him, but that hadn't made me leave him alone. I would have gone mad if I'd even tried. Life without him wasn't life at all. So I hadn't tried. I'd condemned both of us to whatever punishment Aizen could inflict on us. I might have confirmed our death wishes, simply by deciding that I wanted to stay with him. He'd never questioned my judgment once, if he could see the struggle within my mind – and I was certain he could. He didn't complain, didn't seem to blame me at all. Or if he did, he didn't show it. I wouldn't have been surprised if he did blame me. It was, after all, my fault.

"I'm sorry about all this, Ulquiorra," I moaned dreadfully.

"Sorry?" he repeated softly. "What for?"

"If it wasn't for me," I choked, "you wouldn't be in this mess." I buried my face deeper in my hands, hoping vainly to sink through the floor and simply disappear.

I felt one cold finger touch the back of my neck, trailing half-way down my spine and leaving an echoing shiver in its wake.

"If it wasn't for you," he murmured, repeating my words, "I'd still be a mindless puppet."

"You'd be safe, at least."

He waited silently for me to continue, his hand still resting on my back.

"I… heard something, today," I began hesitantly.

"Oh?" he asked, his wonderful whisper gone, his voice void of emotions once again.

"He knows," I revealed breathlessly. "Aizen knows."

I felt him pause behind my back, tense, and then relax again. "I know," he said.

"You… what?" I asked, confused.

"Come now, Grimmjow," he said, the slightest touch of sarcasm in his tone. "Have you forgotten that Aizen still favors me over you? I was informed before you, of course, on the chance that I wished to give you his message myself."

"You _knew_?" I demanded, exasperated, and turned sharply to glare at him. "Why the fuck didn't you _tell me_?"

"It appears I didn't need to."

"That's beside the point!" I spat. "You knew that _Aizen_," I spat his name, "knew about us, and you still…?" I gestured broadly at the unmade bed.

"Why didn't _you_ tell _me_, then?" he returned coldly.

"Well… that's…" I spluttered. I felt my face flush as my reasons flew to the forefront of my mind.

"Tell me, Grimmjow," he demanded. "You've made me curious, now."

"I just…" I muttered. "I just wanted to make our last time the best, you know?"

He paused briefly. "Last?" he asked.

"Well, yeah."

"What makes you think this is the last time we're going to have sex, Grimmjow?" he inquired smugly.

"It… what?"

"I have no intention of stopping, and unless you're as spineless as you look, I doubt you do, either."

I paused a moment, my mouth hanging open slightly in surprise. "But…" I stammered. "He _knows_, Ulquiorra."

"I am aware."

"And you're just _fine_ with that?"

"The damage has already been done, Grimmjow. Do you think Aizen will just forget if we stop this now?" he reasoned.

"But-"

"Are you really so eager for this to end?" he demanded, a touch of anger on his features now.

"No," I admitted. "No, of course not."

"Then listen to me," he said firmly. "You and I are going to pretend like this doesn't matter. Because it doesn't. Not to me, at least, and I'd like to think it doesn't matter to you, either."

"So you're just going to disobey his orders?" I demanded incredulously.

"What orders?" he asked. "Has he given us orders to disobey, Grimmjow?"

"No, but-"

"But what?"

"Well," I spluttered angrily. He was talking me into a corner here, I could see it. "Fuck, Ulquiorra! I thought his little warning made things pretty clear, didn't it?"

He smirked, and it was more of a smile on his face than I'd ever seen before. And it was damn creepy. I felt an involuntary shiver run down my back in fear. I was glad I was on his good side; I wondered how I'd ever survived him hating me.

"I'm willing to break rules for you," he said, edging closer, that manic smirk still on his lips. "What will you break for me?"

"I've-" I began, but he cut me off by placing his hand over my mouth.

"No," he said sharply. His features fell sharply from his frightening smile to his typical blank mask, and farther, into a miniscule frown. "Don't answer that. Don't break anything for me."

I grabbed his wrist, cool and smooth in my fingers, and gently pulled his hand away from my mouth. "I've already broken things for you, Ulquiorra. More than rules."

"Don't say it," he urged in his breathtaking whisper.

"We both knew we weren't coming out of this whole."

"Don't."

I smiled sadly at him, watching his blank, lifeless eyes. There was nothing there. But if I stared at them long enough, I could fool myself into thinking I saw something: some flicker of pain or longing hidden away.

"Are you afraid of being broken?" I asked quietly.

"No," he answered softly. "But I won't watch you be hurt again."

"Me?"

He fell silent, my hand still clamped around his wrist. I waited for him to say something, even though I knew he wouldn't. And when I got tired of waiting, I kissed him. I felt his lips conform to mine, felt his skin, cool and smooth under my tongue. We moved slowly, softly, not really taking it anywhere at all. It was just contact. Communication, telling each other things we couldn't ever say.

He reclined slowly until he was flat on his back, pulling me with him, and then I broke away reluctantly.

"Am I at least allowed to break rules?" I asked quietly as I laid down next to him.

"Would it really make a difference if I said no?" he inquired.

"No."

"Then break as many rules as you see fit," he answered, then closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If I owned Bleach, this would be canon. Read: It's not.

Hello hello again~ I'm super-hyper right now, partially owing to the Diet Coke I just chugged, I'm sure, but also because I have a head cold! And head colds make me loopy! Yay!

For those of you who are interested, ~Sous-Vamp over on DeviantArt is Doujinshi-fying Possession! Go check it out and tell her how awesome she is.

Also, this marks the WHAT, IT'S REALLY ALMOST OVER? second to last chapter. Is it just me, or do these chapters just keep getting shorter? Sorry about that. I promise I will never try to break a fic up into chapters once it's written ever again.

Anyways… I'll shut up and let you guys read now.

_Chapter 3_

I woke hours later, cold and stiff, his eyes watching me intently. It was a little bit creepy waking up to his stare, but I was slowly getting used to it. I liked the thought of him watching me, oddly enough. It didn't really make sense, but he made me feel strangely peaceful. Lots of things didn't make sense when he was involved.

"Good morning," I mumbled, blinking as light flooded my eyes and my consciousness came rushing back.

"You were talking in your sleep again," he informed me, skipping a greeting entirely.

I grimaced. "What did I say?" I asked cautiously, not really sure that I wanted to know.

"I'm not certain I want to tell you," he said, solemn as always.

"Ulquiorra," I growled in warning.

"No," he said decisively. "I'm going to keep this one for myself."

"You're cruel," I accused.

He paused, and seemed to ponder this for moment before opening his mouth to speak again. "Do you really want to know?"

"Just tell me, already."

"Are you certain?" he demanded.

"Tell me, bastard."

He laughed once, without any glimpse of humor in his voice. "You called out my name once," he began softly, rising slowly to his hands and knees to crouch over me. "And then you said, 'Don't touch him. He's mine.'"

"And?" I asked carefully.

"'I'll kill you if you hurt him,'" he continued softly. "'Please, don't hurt him.'" He kissed me softly, his eyes closing to whatever his memory was showing him.

"And then your expression twisted, like you were in pain," he whispered, and my breath caught in my throat. His eyes twitched tighter, his eyebrows pulling together just a tiny bit, and he swallowed slowly before going on. "I've never seen anyone look so pained before. I thought…"

I waited silently as he opened his eyes and raised his hand to brush against my face. His cold fingers brushed lightly over my skin, like a breath of air, or a feather – barely even there, but cold as ice.

"I thought that I would do anything to make it go away," he admitted. I had to strain my ears to hear his words. "I thought it would kill me."

"I'm glad it didn't."

He moved slowly, leaning over me, his hand caressing my cheek and his thumb sliding lightly along the side of my nose. "Maybe it should have," he suggested. I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. "You'd be better without me, Grimmjow," he said insistently. "And I'd be better without you. We both know it. But that simply isn't an option anymore."

"Damn right, it isn't," I answered sharply.

He gave half a smirk and rose languidly. I pushed myself up on my elbows, staring at him almost out of habit. I opened my mouth to speak, but was cut off by a muffled knocking. We both turned our heads abruptly towards the source of the sound, and then he darted away, moving so quickly my eyes couldn't pick up on his movements. When he appeared again he was fully dressed, perfectly composed. He held out a hand to me, signaling for me to wait as I wrapped a sheet around my waist, preparing to stand. He padded carefully to the front door, and I followed a few steps behind, heedless of his unspoken warning.

The door creaked open slowly, and I hid myself behind it just in time. A small, tinny voice sounded from the other side.

"Aizen-sama requests the presence of the cuatro espada, Ulquiorra Schiffer," it said. Then a small, childlike arrancar with bulbous purple eyes squirmed his – or her, it was hard to really tell – way around Ulquiorra and looked straight at me. "The sexta espada, Grimmjow Jaggerjacks, as well."

We both watched the small messenger arrancar in amazement for a moment or two. It seemed completely unaffected by the presence of two espada who could easily crush it at any moment. Suddenly it grinned broadly and offered one last instruction:

"Immediately," it said.

I gave Ulquiorra a wide-eyed look as our little messenger departed. He offered only his usual impassive stare in return. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. A sudden, hopeless fear had gripped my lungs. We didn't stand a chance.

A moment passed in silence, my mouth still gaping pointlessly. His gaze slid over my bare chest. "Get dressed," he commanded. "Quickly."

I hurried to his room and did as he said, my brain numb, and we were soon walking silently through endless pale corridors. He kept his distance from me, always a step ahead and three feet to my right. I suspected he did it on purpose, but, as always, it was just a guess.

Aizen's throne room – for lack of a better term – wasn't far, but it seemed like we walked forever. I realized that this was the first time in a very long time that we'd travelled the halls together. It should have been awkward, I thought – all that silence. But for some reason it seemed perfectly normal. Maybe because cold silence was his nature, or because we'd made it a habit not to speak to each other outside of our rooms. It didn't matter. I was glad to be walking with him, rather than alone. If we were nearing the end, then I wanted to spend every moment with him I could.

As we approached and paused before Aizen's door, he spoke the first words I'd heard since we'd left his room.

"Are you prepared to see this through to the end, Grimmjow?" he asked.

"What do you think?" I returned with a halfhearted sneer.

He stared at me coldly, apparently unsatisfied with my response.

I fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Of course I am," I muttered.

His gaze moved slowly away from me, towards whatever fate awaited us behind that door. "Good," he said finally, and stepped forward.

I followed a pace behind him, stepping nervously into the core of Aizen's realm. This was to be our courtroom. Everything could end here – everything. I was painfully aware of every passing second, all of them slipping away from us. Would I get to say goodbye to him, I wondered? Most likely not, but maybe that was for the best.

We stood side by side; the distance between us seemed to grow by the second, separating us as best it could. I faced Aizen as boldly as I could, willing myself not to look at Ulquiorra instead.

"Welcome," Aizen said warmly, spreading his hands before him.

Neither of us answered.

"I expect you both know why you're here," he continued, like he was reprimanding a couple of schoolchildren, and waited for an answer.

"Yes, Aizen-sama," Ulquiorra replied.

I clenched my teeth. It disgusted me, the way he still called that bastard "Aizen-_sama_." It disgusted me to hear any name but my own fall from his mouth.

Aizen smiled. "I would like to have a private word with Ulquiorra," he said to the room at large, and then turned slightly and spoke directly to me. "That is, if you don't mind, Grimmjow."

I paused before I answered him, holding back my rage, reeling in the urge to lunge for his throat. I couldn't win in a fight against him, that much was agonizingly clear. I doubted that both Ulquiorra and I together could put more than a scratch on him. Still, my natural instinct was to attack – to protect myself from anything that threatened my livelihood, and, more importantly, _his _livelihood.

"Be my guest," I growled, lowering my head in a mock bow.

"Thank you, Grimmjow," he said, and – with another condescending smile – gestured towards the door. "Stay close, please," he called as I turned to leave again. He said it as if it were a request, but we all knew it was an order. "I'd like to speak with you, later."

I didn't answer, just strode out of the room. I waited until the door closed behind me to slam my fist into the opposite wall. I'd lost him. It didn't matter now whether Aizen let him live or – I choked on the mere thought – die, I couldn't have him anymore. He'd always done exactly as Aizen said. I'd never seen him disobey an order, and even though he'd said he would, I suddenly couldn't believe him. Nothing I'd ever seen him do or say towards Aizen gave me even a sliver of hope that he could defy him. He worshiped Aizen. Aizen was his god, and I – well, I didn't know what I was to him, but it was considerably less than a god, I was certain.

I pulled my fist away from the wall and leaned my forehead against it instead. I wished I could cry. I didn't care what anyone thought anymore. I never had, really. I wanted tears, sobs, anything – some physical manifestation of the pain I was feeling, some small way to let it out. But we were hollows, beings not meant to grieve or to feel this kind of anguish. There were no tears for me to cry. His tears were the only tears, and I didn't even have those anymore.

I let myself fall to my knees on the hallway floor, then turned slowly, lowering myself to sit with my back against the wall, my feet stretched in front of me, my hands limp at my sides, my head leaning back so I could stare mindlessly at the ceiling. I stayed there for god only knows how long, forcing my mind to clear itself of any thoughts of him – and, consequently, any thoughts at all. I pushed everything down – all of the emotions, the thoughts and the fears, down my throat, past my lungs, through my stomach, until they were no longer in my body, and farther still. All of it, hiding it away where I couldn't get to it, where it wouldn't cause me pain. I was completely thoughtless, without emotions or worries to make me miserable, but it wasn't exactly pleasant, either. It was just empty. It was what I'd have to learn to be, without him.

Time was of no importance in the vacant void of my new mind. To me it felt like only a moment had passed – though in reality it'd been almost two hours – when the creak of a door brought me back to my senses. And then there he was, gazing at me, the way he always did, and I broke. My careful emptiness was suddenly full; all the things I'd hidden deep under the floor rose in a rush to my head. I couldn't be empty when he was there, making me alive. I stood slowly, shakily, and took one cautious step towards him.

He stepped backwards.

"Aizen-sama wishes to speak to you," he said evenly.

I felt something inside me implode, some small catastrophe leading my body haywire. I nodded robotically in reply and walked right past him. He hardly looked at me.

I told myself that I'd lost him long before that moment. I told myself he'd abandoned me the instant I'd left that room. But it hadn't hurt quite so much until just then.

"Grimmjow," Aizen said in greeting as I approached him hesitantly. "Welcome back."

Silence.

A slow smile spread over Aizen's face.

"I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind," he said. "And I'd like for you to answer them truthfully. Do we have an agreement?"

It didn't take a genius to hear the order behind his request, the threats laced in every syllable.

"Yes, Aizen-sama," I said.

"Good," he said pleasantly.

I waited for him to begin, knowing he'd planned his questions precisely, and knowing that I was only moments away from walking into one sort of trap or another.

"You are…" he started, then paused. "… in a relationship, if you will, with the cuatro espada, Ulquiorra Schiffer, are you not?"

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, before I answered him. "That is correct," I replied sharply.

"You admit to having sexual relations with him, as well?"

"Yes." My skin crawled – I felt dirty, filthy. Completely defiled. I was disgusted at myself for bending to his will like some common weakling. I hated that he was stronger than me. I hated that I couldn't break free of this servitude to him. I hated that he was tearing me away from Ulquiorra, the only one I'd ever felt anything for.

"And this has been going on for quite some time now, I understand?"

I nodded.

"I am a bit shocked, I'll admit," he said calmly. "I was under the impression that you hated each other. You hid it well."

It was like he was flattering us, but at the same time scolding. I chose not to answer.

"What is he to you?" Aizen asked.

I considered this for a moment. What was he to me? I couldn't answer that. He was everything and more, but there wasn't a word for that. He was what I wanted, what I needed more than anything, but I couldn't tell Aizen that. I'd asked myself this same question a million times in the past, but there was never an answer to it.

Aizen was waiting for me to answer him, but I didn't have anything to say. So I said nothing. He could wait forever for all I cared.

He seemed to interpret my silence as a refusal to reply. "Come now, Grimmjow," he said. "Can't you humor me a little?"

"Pardon," I said, though even I could hear that my voice sounded more like I was telling him to go to hell, "but you're asking me to tell you things I don't know myself."

He seemed amused by this, his eyebrows creeping slowly up his forehead. "You don't know?" he demanded.

"No," I replied.

"What are you to him, then?"

A wild, unexpected grin spread across my face, and I almost laughed out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of his question, but caught myself just in time. "I have no idea," I admitted. "He isn't exactly one to share his thoughts, is he?"

"So, you don't know what his intentions are?"

"No clue," I agreed.

"You don't know for sure that he doesn't have some ulterior motive, and yet you've involved yourself with him anyways?"

My grin fell from my face and an uncertain ache crept into my stomach. "That is correct," I said through clenched teeth.

Aizen regarded me coolly. "That seems unwise to me. Don't you think so too, Grimmjow?"

I paused to gather a response, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I…" I stammered doubtfully. "I trust him to keep his word."

"Has he given you some sort of promise, then?"

"Not in so many words," I confessed grudgingly.

"Hm," he murmured. I waited for him to continue his questioning, staring him down determinedly as he scrutinized me.

He continued after a minute had passed. "Does he fascinate you, Grimmjow?" he asked.

"Yes," I returned honestly.

"What about him fascinates you?"

His questions were less an interrogation and more like he was merely curious. I was familiar with the carefree way in which he conducted his investigations, but that didn't change the fact that it infuriated me. He was treating it like it was nothing for me to be completely obsessed with Ulquiorra. It aggravated me to see the way he minimized our relationship – wrapped it all up into one insignificant, easily definable notion, as if it were of no import at all. He asked his question like it hardly mattered whether I was fascinated by Ulquiorra or not. Like he'd already picked his verdict, as was just going through the motions of our trial.

"I-" I nearly answered him without thinking, but choked on the words just in time. I hoped he hadn't noticed, but he had.

"Please, don't hold back," he urged. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I only wish for you to answer honestly," he lied.

He was threatening me. He'd punish me if I didn't tell the truth, was his message. And withholding information was lying, as well.

"What about him _fascinates_ me?" I repeated scornfully.

He nodded in encouragement.

I took a deep breath and looked away, collecting myself. This wasn't going to go over well. I looked back determinedly.

"The sex," I said bluntly.

"Is that all?" he inquired when I didn't elaborate. I didn't respond.

"What about the sex?" he demanded.

I recoiled slightly. I didn't want to explain this to him. I doubted he'd ever been laid in his life, but that didn't mean he had to take his curiosity out on me.

He saw me flinch and smiled slightly, as if he could guess what I was thinking. "You do me an injustice, Grimmjow," he said accusingly. "I merely wish to better understand the relationship between you and the cuatro espada before I make my judgment."

I swallowed my retort, fighting the bile that rose in my throat as I opened my mouth to answer to him. "He-" I started, the halted abruptly. I rifled quickly through my intimate knowledge of his body, searching for something that would satisfy him, but that wasn't too personal to share.

"He's cold," I said finally.

"Cold?" Aizen repeated, like maybe he wasn't sure what I meant.

"His skin," I replied. "It's cold. Or maybe I'm warmer than normal, and it just seems that way. It feels good," I admitted.

"And?" he said, clearly waiting for more.

"He… says my name," I told him, hating myself for giving even that small, treasured bit of _him_ away.

"I see."

I waited patiently for him to continue his questioning, at the same time silently wishing he'd finish, that he'd wrap it up and either let me go or do the fucking deed already.

"So your relationship with him is purely physical?" he questioned.

"No," I contradicted promptly.

"Elaborate, please," he requested.

My heart fell into my stomach. That had been a mistake, to deny him so readily. We might have escaped up until now – arrancars engaged now and then in the occasional affair, but it was never more than that. I'd doomed us for certain, now. And in any case, I didn't know how to explain how it was more than physical. It just was.

I replied with, "I don't think I can."

"You are unsure about this, as well?" he clarified. I nodded in assent.

He paused for a moment before asking his next question.

"Do you love him, Grimmjow?"

I froze. Love? Was he joking? I was an arrancar – a hollow. I couldn't feel love; I could feel hate, and rage, and ambition. I wasn't made to feel anything else. And yet there was something nagging at the back of my mind, something that reminded me inexplicably of the way we'd never been able to put a name to our attachment, the way I needed him so unconditionally, the way he kissed me.

The way he said my name.

Aizen watched me patiently as I struggled to come up with an answer. No, I didn't love him, but…

I couldn't love him, but…

I shouldn't love him, but…

"Well, Grimmjow?" he asked after some time. "Do you love him?"

"N-no," I said finally. "No, I don't, but I…" My voice trailed away as my words failed me.

"But?"

"I mean, I'm a hollow. And he's a hollow," I insisted, pointing out the obvious. "We can't love. But…"

"Yes, Grimmjow?"

"If… if we were human…" I muttered, "…maybe it'd be different."

"Different how?" he demanded.

"I think if we were human, I could love him," I clarified. My hands curled tightly in on themselves, my fingernails digging painfully into my palm, drawing drops of blood, as I realized what I was saying. I was glad Ulquiorra wasn't there to witness it, but even as I thought it, I wished he had been. I always wanted to be with me, even when I was exposing myself to the world. Especially when I was exposing myself to the world. I hated being apart from him, and I wanted it to end.

"Very well then," Aizen said, and a note of blessed finality rang in his voice. "In that case, there is nothing left for me to ask you."

"We're done?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Though I do have one final request."

I waited.

"I want for you and Ulquiorra to continue as you've been doing. I'd like to observe you for some time before I make my final decision."

"C-continue?" I stammered.

"Indeed. That is all, Grimmjow," he instructed firmly. "You may go."

I turned and strode out of the room in a daze. Ulquiorra wasn't there anymore – of course he wasn't – but this time, I didn't wait for night to fall before I headed for his chambers, and I didn't bother to knock when I got there.

I saw him right away when I opened the door. He was standing in the far corner of the room, barely leaning against the wall, and staring unwaveringly out the one, small window the room had to offer. I closed the door gently, eyeing him nervously. It seemed almost as though he hadn't noticed me yet, though I knew there was no way he couldn't have. Finally, he blinked and turned his head slowly to look at me.

"You're back," he said calmly.

I didn't know how to answer him, if only because it was such a simple statement. His eyes were steady and intent, holding my own gaze to them effortlessly. I didn't ever want to look away.

"I didn't know if I'd get to see you again," he said at length.

"I know," I began, "I didn't eith–" but I never got to finish, because he'd crossed the room in a mere flicker of light and was kissing me – and I'd be damned if I was going to let some godforsaken half-a-word get in the way of that. It felt like I'd been waiting forever to feel his kiss. Maybe I had – I couldn't tell anymore, and I didn't care so long as I could feel his lips against mine.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Author's note: We're here, guys. This is the end. The very, very end. There really isn't any more. It's been a good run, and I had fun. Thank you for reading!

_Chapter 4_

We stood there for an eternity, and I didn't ever think it would end – I didn't want it to. We'd survived for now, but there were no guarantees for the future. We had to be together while we could. Whatever time we had left, even if it was the rest of eternity, couldn't be enough for us. We were running out.

I felt his lips mouth my name, and I paused, waiting for him to say more, but he only kissed harder. "Ulquiorra," I whispered. I was suddenly desperate to hear him say my name, if only once. "Ulquiorra, please," I begged.

He pulled away the tiniest bit. It seemed to me that he knew exactly what I wanted and didn't think it was odd at all. But still, he didn't say it. Instead, he grabbed me by the wrist and led me through his quarters, to his bedroom, where we'd been so many times before. I let him push me gently down onto the bed and straddle me protectively, but when he leaned down to kiss me again, I put my hand on his shoulder, restraining him

"Not tonight," I said quietly.

He sat up languidly, holding my eyes with his dark gaze. He was silent for a while, simply staring at me with those bottomless, emotionless eyes.

"Alright," he agreed softly. We stayed in silence for a minute longer before he broke it again.

"Why not?" he inquired.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, considering this. I'd never refused sex before. This was confusing to me, as well.

"You're right of course," he said when I didn't answer. "This isn't the time for that." His hand moved to my forehead, pushing away a stray hair, brushing softly through my hairline. "I simply want to know why." His hand froze suddenly, coming to rest near my ear.

"It's just… something Aizen kind of said," I admitted. "He… asked me if our relationship was just physical. And I kind of wondered, too."

"So you want to test it," he conjectured.

"Something like that," I agreed.

His hand wandered away from my forehead, down the side of my face and neck, slowly and lightly across my chest. "I don't think I can restrain myself from touching you," he murmured.

"So… is this just physical, then?" I asked.

"No," he answered immediately.

"Then what is it?"

He hesitated, his hand pausing in its path. "Well," he began after a moment. "There are parts of it that are physical, yes. But there are other parts to it, too."

"Like what?" I demanded.

"I'm not entirely sure," he replied. "There's something that makes me want to be around you, I suppose. Whether I'm touching you or not."

"What is it about me?" I asked before I could stop myself. Instantly, I wished I hadn't said it. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut, that I'd left myself to my own speculations, that I hadn't given him the opportunity to refuse or disappoint me. I wanted to know, I _did_, but I also didn't.

"That…" he murmured, "…is a question which deserves a moment of consideration."

"I can wait," I promised.

It took him a full minute to gather a response – the longest minute of my existence, without a doubt. An eternity passed as I watched his lifeless eyes grow colder and colder, his thoughts hidden somewhere just beyond what I could see.

Finally, he spoke.

"It's everything about you," he said softly. "Everything I used to hate about you." As if there was no more to say.

"You've never… told me, exactly, what you used to hate about me," I reminded him cautiously.

His voice sank to a whisper as he spoke. "I haven't?" he repeated.

"No," I said.

"And you wish to know?" he demanded.

"Yes," I replied.

He paused briefly, then twisted his body so he was no longer pinning me to the bed, and lay on his back next to me, looking blankly at the ceiling.

"What I used to hate…" he began softly, "...was anything that put life in your eyes. When you were angry, or excited. I hated when you defied Aizen. Your ambition disgusted me – I thought the only thing you cared about was getting stronger. And there was nothing that made me more furious than to see you pleased about something. Even if it was something that benefitted me as well – I couldn't stand to see you get your way."

He didn't look at me once as he spoke. His eyes were glued to the whitewashed ceiling, and his words felt rushed, like he was eager to get them over with.

"And what do you hate now?" I prompted, sensing there was something more.

"I hate it when your eyes are dead," he admitted, still looking away. "It happens more and more lately." He paused. "Whenever something threatens to come between us, it's like your eyes turn to stone. Like you've died. And it's like looking in a mirror – I can't stand it."

"Really?" I asked, surprised, and a little bit angry as well. Who was he to tell me that he couldn't stand my dead eyes, when his were just as lifeless, if not more? If looking at me was like looking in a mirror, then how the hell did he think I felt?

"Yes," he said. He still wouldn't turn his eyes to look at me, and my stomach began to crawl with nerves, wondering why not. "I know it's not something you can prevent, but I can't help but want it to stop."

"Ulquiorra, look at me," I hissed sharply. My blood boiled in frustration – suddenly I was angrier than I could ever remember being before. I was furious, but not with him. I couldn't bring myself to be angry at him, only myself. I was so weak, so needy – why couldn't I just be satisfied with what I had? I had him, there, with me, didn't I? How could I possibly ask him to give me any more? He turned his head slowly, his eyes moving last of all, only to latch onto my own with all the force of an arctic blizzard. "_You _can't stand to look in _my dead eyes_?" I said furiously. Something stung the backs of my eyelids, but I ignored it. "I've never seen anything _but_ death in yours! And there's been so much that I _wanted _to see. So much that you could have shown me!"

"Stop," he whispered hastily, and I almost did. But not quite.

"Can you blame me for wondering if you care about me _at all_?" I demanded viciously. My insides twisted sickeningly as I realized the bitter truth of my words. "I've never seen anything that might make me think for a _moment_ that you give a fuck whether I live or die. Can you really blame me for dying a little sometimes?"

I was up on my hands and knees, I realized, leaning over him as I expounded his flaws. I hadn't meant to say those things. I hadn't meant to say anything. I hadn't known there was any of that to say. But I didn't regret a word of it, because it was true – every word of it.

"Grimmjow," he whispered urgently, and my entire body shuddered in reply. He raised his hand and held it lightly – cold as ice – against my face. His thumb brushed across my cheek, and a trail of something wet followed. "Why didn't you tell me these things?"

"I couldn't," I choked. "I mean, it wouldn't have made any difference, would it? That's just the way you are."

"It is," he agreed breathlessly. "But it doesn't have to be, Grimmjow. I can learn to be different."

"You can't just change who you are," I argued. "I don't want you to just _pretend_."

His hand tensed against my cheek. "Then what would you have me do?" he persisted. "I can't keep torturing you like this. I can't let you go on wondering whether I _care _about you or not," he whispered.

"You aren't torturing me," I disagreed.

"You can't possibly expect me to believe otherwise," he insisted. "Not when the evidence is so overwhelming. You're _crying_, Grimmjow," he whispered. His hand brushed the tears on my cheek, and I hoped vainly that he could simply wipe them away and everything would be fine. "How can I make you see what I feel?"

"Tell me," I suggested, rubbing the traitorous teardrops from my eye. I couldn't even bring myself to be ashamed. "Just tell me what you feel."

"I… don't know that I can," he admitted.

"Just try," I urged.

He paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Right now, I feel… anguish," he said uncertainly. "I hate to see you so pained. I'm angry with myself, for being the one who caused that pain. And I'm also… a little bit happy, I suppose."

I waited patiently for him to elaborate.

"I'm glad that you don't like my emotionless state. And I'm glad that I'm important to you," he said softly. His hand fell away from my face, his eyes opened slowly. "You are all that is important to me, Grimmjow," he assured me. "You are my entire reason for existence. For you to wonder if I care about you is agony to my ears."

"There," I muttered, the tears finally slowing. "That wasn't so hard, right?"

"I wish it was easier," he replied. "There are no words for some of the things I've felt with you."

"I know," I agreed.

"Can you forgive me for being so blind to your pain?" he whispered. His words were so wonderfully soft that I could hear the desperation clearly in his voice. My heart twisted in my chest, torn between the joy of hearing his emotions and the pain of what those emotions were.

"I have before, haven't I?" I said dismissively.

"Yes, and I am grateful to you still."

"Then you shouldn't even need to ask."

He paused, staring darkly into my eyes. "I've hurt you deeper than I know, haven't I?" he demanded.

"Yes," I admitted quietly. "But that doesn't mean anything. I've hurt you a million times worse."

"Maybe," he murmured, "but you've given me so much more than pain. I'll take all the pain I have to if it means you can belong to me."

"Well, then," I said, "I guess I do belong to you. Don't I?"

"If that's what you want."

"That's exactly what I want."

We were silent for a moment, and I watched him carefully, gauging his reaction. There still wasn't much to see – mostly he was still as cold as ever. But there was something, the tiniest spark of life in his eyes that made me think that maybe he could change. That maybe he'd been hiding his feelings, and was only now realizing it was okay to show them to me. And I wanted to be there for him, to tell him it _was_ okay to show me – that I'd be with him no matter what. As long as he needed me, I'd be there for him.

"I have a question for you, Grimmjow," he said, breaking the silence.

"Shoot," I answered.

"What did Aizen ask you?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded, for a moment. "Oh," I muttered. "Um." I wracked my memories of earlier that day, trying to remember what Aizen had asked first. I realized it had hardly been an hour, and felt a little bit shocked. It seemed like an eternity had passed since then. "He asked… what you were to me," I answered cautiously. "And I told him I didn't know myself."

"Do you know now?"

"No."

He nodded. "What else?"

"He asked me what I liked about the sex," I recounted disgustedly.

"How did you answer him?"

"I told him about… how cold you are," I answered hesitantly.

"Cold?" he repeated, bewildered.

"Yeah," I said awkwardly. "You know, your skin and stuff. It's… cold," I explained halfheartedly.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

A moment passed in silence as I waited for him to continue his questioning. I didn't seem to mind his questions nearly as much as Aizen's, even though he was essentially asking me the same things. He raised a hand to touch my face, brushing away the remainders of my tears.

"Did he…" he began.

"Did he what?"

"Did he ask you if you loved me?" he whispered.

I choked on my own breath. "Y-yes," I stammered.

"And… what did you tell him?"

He waited patiently as I contemplated my answer. I knew exactly what I'd told Aizen. The question was whether I wanted to tell him the same thing. Eventually I decided that yes, I did, and I had to anyways, because I couldn't bring myself to lie to him.

"I told him I couldn't love," I replied. "Because I'm a hollow. But that… it would be different if we were human."

"Would it be so different if we were human, Grimmjow?" he asked.

"Yes," I said insistently. "Yes, it would. I _would _love you."

"What's to stop you from loving me now?" he demanded.

This shocked me, and it took me a moment for my mind to properly register what he'd said, and another to remember my answer. "We're… hollows," I repeated uncertainly.

He watched me with a frozen gaze, his features descending back into the emotionless mask I knew so well. "He asked me that same question, Grimmjow," he informed me.

"What?" I said, surprised. "What did you say?"

"I told him that I'd never experienced love before, so I didn't know what love was. But I've felt so many things for you that love might be one of them."

I gulped at the lump in my throat, willing it to sink. "You… do you really think so?"

"Yes, Grimmjow," he said obstinately. His fingers had moved from my cheek to the back of my neck, where they were twisting nearly painfully in my hair. "I think I love you."

"That's…" I spluttered. "That's ridiculous."

"It is, isn't it?"

"Ulquiorra…" I said warningly. "This is dangerous. You can't… you can't take something like that back, you know."

"Why would I want to?" he asked. "I mean it."

"Shit, you…"

"I?"

"You've got no idea what you do to me when you say things like that," I blurted breathlessly.

"Enlighten me," he suggested.

"You… fuck, I've never been so…"

"So what?"

"Happy," I finished reluctantly, and felt a rush throughout my body as I said it, like every small knot that had been gathering had suddenly broken, and every nerve was on fire with it. I _was_ happy, I realized. I was overjoyed. Even the small possibility that he might love me sent me into pure ecstasy. And yet at the same time there was something that pulled at me, that reminded me that any small amount of contact he had with me put him at risk, and that he'd just said the most potentially fatal words of all.

"Happy?" he repeated.

"No," I revised. "No, that isn't quite… right. It's not strong enough."

"I see."

There was a knot growing in my stomach again, and I thought it best to let him come to his own conclusions about what my true feelings were. He stared at me with eyes that read me like a book; I stared back hungrily, my eyes absorbing every detail of his flawless, ashen skin and impassive features.

"Would you do something for me, Ulquiorra?" I said softly.

"Anything," he consented blindly.

"Say my name," I begged.

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open slightly in shock. "G-grimmjow," he stuttered. Then he said it again, more confidently, the way I loved to hear it. "Grimmjow."

I sighed, and leaned down to press my lips against his. We'd talked long enough, I'd decided. I needed to feel his lips against mine, so I was done testing our relationship. It was more than just physical, I knew it for certain now. There was no point in avoiding him any longer.

Before long, though, another question crossed my mind. I broke away from him and laid next to him, my arm draped across his chest and the space between us hardly existing at all.

"Can I ask _you_ a question now, Ulquiorra?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Why is it…" I inquired hesitantly, "… that you never top? You know, why don't _you _ever fuck _me_ for a change?"

His eyes narrowed, and the tiniest blush spread across his cheeks.

"No," he said. "You can ask anything but that."

I grinned broadly. "You're embarrassed?" I teased. "Just tell me."

"No, Grimmjow, I–" he sighed, "I can't. I simply can't."

"Why? Are you afraid to tell me?" I demanded.

"I don't want to damage your oh-so-fragile ego," he deadpanned.

My eye twitched involuntarily. "That's why?" I asked.

"In a way," he agreed. "It's more like… I have power over you in every other situation, because of our ranks, and I want you to have power over me, for once."

I glared at him through narrowed eyes. "That was a cheap shot," I accused.

"I didn't intend to take any kind of shot," he refuted.

"Well, in any case," I said dismissively, "I don't care about any of that. I mean, if you want to fuck me, go ahead and fuck me, but if you don't want to, you don't have to."

He looked at me blankly for a moment, then blinked and nodded slightly. "Thank you," he said.

We didn't move for a while more, simply lying still in each other's company.

"What will we do now?" I asked him finally.

"We'll wait," he answered softly, "and we'll endure whatever punishments Aizen can impose. And when it's all over, we'll have each other."

"Maybe," I whispered, the ache plain in my voice.

His features twisted slightly, and something that hinted at a much deeper pain flashed across his face. "I'll follow you anywhere you go," he promised. "Even if it means death."

"Please don't die for me," I said urgently.

"I will if I have to," he insisted.

"Ulquiorra…" I muttered pleadingly.

"Grimmjow," he said defiantly, and before I could get another word out, he was kissing me again, and again, and again. We didn't say another word again that night, in fact – only kissed, right up until the very moment that he fell asleep in my arms.

I thought about how lucky I'd been to find him, and how perfect it was that he'd wanted me as much as I'd wanted him. It was hard to comprehend, really; we were both in more danger than we'd ever been before, and yet, the only things I could think of were how amazing he was, and how content he'd made me simply by not hating me any more – not to mention admitting that he might love me. I was addicted to him in every sense of the word. My heart, my mind, my soul – every ounce of my body needed him, cried out for him every second that he was not near. I wouldn't just die without him. I'd completely fall apart. I'd simply melt away. I'd disintegrate.

His body was cold in my arms, his face wonderfully serene. I watched him leisurely, tracing his pale features with my eyes. Suddenly he moved, his arm snaking around my chest in the middle of his slumber. I chuckled silently to myself, and fell asleep with his arm wrapped around me.

That night I dreamt of a funeral. Not just any funeral – my own. It was a graveside service, and I was the only being in attendance. I watched sullenly as my own coffin lowered itself slowly below the surface of the earth. Then I took up a shovel and began to bury myself, and I didn't stop until the entirety of the hole was filled. When I was finished, I lit the grave on fire and it burned with blue and green flames. I turned and walked away, and as I stepped out of the graveyard I was stopped by a hand on my elbow. I turned to see Ulquiorra standing next to me, looking expectant.

I tried to pull my arm away, but he shook his head slowly, his eyes locked with mine.

"You don't need that body anymore," he said to me. "You have me now."

And then before I could say a word, he crumbled before my eyes, falling away to nothing more than dust floating on the breeze. I watched the particles dance in the dim light of my dream's sky, and I felt as if my heart had collapsed. Suddenly I felt my own body fall out from under me, and in the brief second I had to glance down I saw that I had become nothing more than a puddle on the sidewalk. And then the sky turned as black as coal, a solitary moon hanging heavy in the sky, and I, along with the sidewalk, dissolved to make way for the sands of Hueco Mundo.

I woke with a shudder, my eyes flying open to a pitch black room and a thick terror settling in my gut. I reached out blindly, panicking, until my fingers collided with his body – still right next to me, and as solid as ever. A sigh of relief escaped my lips. I'd never been as scared as just then, when I'd thought he'd really disappeared. His arms were still wrapped around me, I realized as they tightened in response to my sudden movement. He was like a little kid, I thought, always needing something to cling to. But I was like that, too, so I didn't mind a bit.

I lifted my hand to run my fingers softly over his tear-stained cheeks. How ironic, how stupid, that he was the one branded with those two little lines, when I was the one who he'd reduced to tears.

It was impossible, really. I'd never cried before, and I'd never seen anyone else cry, either. Even in the few, fragmented human memories I had, there was nothing like tears. And who said the impossibility had to stop at tears?

He'd said he might love me. I closed my eyes, even though his room was already void of light, as I remembered his words, the way he'd said them, the way my heart had soared and my stomach had twisted and my brain had gone all fuzzy.

What was love, anyways? How could anyone say for certain? Was it needing him constantly? Was it wanting him with every fiber, every cell of my body? Was it suffering every moment he was away? Was it rejoicing every moment he was near, even through hard times? Was it not wanting him to so much as look at anyone else? Was it when his pain hurt me more deeply than my own? If that was love, if any of them were anything like love, then I must have loved him. I must have loved him more than anyone had ever loved before.

I did love him.

I lifted my hand away from his face and wound it around his chest instead. And then I held him closer than I had ever held him before, and I resolved to tell him the instant he woke, the first chance I could, just how much I loved him. I nearly woke him then to tell him, but I couldn't bring myself to disturb his peaceful slumber.

His head turned in his sleep as I hugged his body, and he mumbled words that I couldn't quite make out. So I talked in my sleep, did I? Well, so did he. I kissed the line of his jaw softly and moved down his neck. His mumbling grew louder, clearer.

"Grimmjow," he moaned in a whisper, and my heart flipped in my chest. "Don't go…."

"Never," I replied quietly.

"Good," he breathed.

I fell asleep for the second time that night with his arms wrapped around my body, but this time I slept with my ear against his chest, his heart beating out the softest, most perfect lullaby I had ever heard.

The next morning, I woke from his movement. He rose from the bed and left the room hurriedly. I heard a door open and shut again, and then he was beside me once more.

"Aizen has called us," he said, leaning down so he could whisper in my ear. "Are you ready?"

"No," I moaned sleepily.

He gave one humorless chuckle, a small puff of air against my ear. "That's a shame," he deadpanned. I couldn't decide if he was teasing or not. "Get up."

I sat up with a groan and rubbed at the sleep in my eyes. He was standing next to me, looking impatient. I shot him my most mischievous grin as I remembered all that had passed the previous night.

"Come here," I instructed playfully.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he took a step closer anyways. When he was in arm's length, I reached out and wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to mine. I kissed him more tenderly, and with more feeling than I ever had before.

"Grimmjow," he muttered as I pulled away slowly and rested my forehead against his broken mask once more.

"I love you," I murmured. I saw his eyes widen and his jaw fall the tiniest bit.

"What?" he demanded.

"Just trying it out," I explained. "I love you."

"Enough," he growled.

"What?" I asked. "You don't like the way it sounds?" And then I said it again, because it was funny to see him unsettled. "I love you."

"No," he insisted. "That isn't it at all."

"Explain." I smiled and said it again, just to spite him, and not at all because I loved the way it felt on my tongue, or the way it sounded in my ears, or the way it rang true down my spine and all throughout my body. "I love you."

"I'm afraid I like the way it sounds all too much," he answered.

"Then why don't you try it?"

I licked my lips nervously as I watched him deliberate. It amazed me how, even in the past twelve hours, his expressions had changed from being completely emotionless to being just the tiniest bit readable. Although I wasn't sure which of us had really changed: him or me.

Finally, he kissed me softly, like the touch of a feather, and then moved his lips to my ear.

"I love you," he whispered, and I could have sworn that my body had fallen out from under me again, the same way it had in my dream. But this time he was still very much solid, and I wasn't a puddle at all.

"Are you happy now?" he demanded.

"You have no idea," I admitted.

"Good," he said, and proceeded to kiss me like it was the first time his lips had ever touched mine, and he didn't know whether he'd ever get to kiss me again. He pulled away slowly, his dark gaze holding mine steadily, easily.

"Then let's go," he said.


End file.
